


A New Beginning

by Burning_Ice



Series: Resistance [2]
Category: DCU, Justice League & Justice League Unlimited (Cartoons)
Genre: Annoying Superman, Batfamily-centric, Dark, Justice Lords, Manipulative Superaman, R.I.O.T., Rebellion, Resistance, batfamily
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-05
Updated: 2017-05-18
Packaged: 2018-04-13 04:12:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 7,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4507284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Burning_Ice/pseuds/Burning_Ice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Flash has Died. The Justice Lords have taken over. Now, Batman has no choice but to get rid of all the Black Sheep in his family.//</p>
<p>Nightwing is watching as more and more civilians play right into the Justice Lord's hands, and he can't stand by and enjoy the show. Slowly finding more and more people who hate the new leaders as much as he, he creates a group to try and draw the curtains on the Justice Lords' stage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DreamAsIRead](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamAsIRead/gifts).



> Sorry if it seems a bit rushed at the end, I couldn't find any other way to type it. Anyway, I hope you enjoy.

“ _I’m here with you today right outside the Hall of Justice where the Justice League had their first public execution_ ,” The reporter’s bored voice wafted through the open bathroom door, right to Nightwing’s ears. Dick stood under the showerhead, letting the water make a steady rhythm on his shoulders. Looking down at his feet, he watched the crimson red water turn into a lighter shade of pink, and slowly become clearer as more and more of the iron-smelling liquid was washed off his body. Dick was accustomed to this. Rubbing grimness and blood off his body was something he had to do after almost every battle, but usually the blood was his own.

Jason’s body had been difficult to carry in the state of confusion that Dick had felt. He was sure that he had left a clear trail of red to his bike with the way he dragged Jason, but he couldn’t find the time to care. He vaguely remembers feeling Jason’s warm body, and thinking that maybe there was still time to save Jason, thinking that he might be alive. Dick’s hopes were always let down when he checked Jason’s pulse. 

Now, after an hour of driving to the closest, safest place he knew, Jason was dumped on the couch, and Dick had ran under the water to get any remnants of his brother off him. He could hear Tim in the living room, rearranging Jason into a more comfortable position. Dick couldn’t help but pause, and think. When had everything gone wrong? How had the Justice League gain so much power?

 _It was handed to them_ , Dick thought bitterly, already knowing the answer. _They’re our heroes. Why wouldn’t we trust them?_

The reporter continued with a, “ _We all know,_ ” and Dick’s thoughts were shattered, and he listened to the television as the noise mingled with the pound of the water, “ _that the League have been executing for some time-- starting with known criminals like Lex Luthor, although they were always done away from prying eyes. It seems that now they have upped their game, making it known to everyone that those were not a temporary thing. This execution was the one of Jason Peter Todd, also known as The Red Hood_.”

Dick started to scrub harder, until his skin matched the pink of the water. When his fingers started to go numb, and his arms started to hurt, he finally stepped out of the shower, wrapping a towel around his waist. Standing in front of the fogged mirror, he wiped once, looking at the distorted refection of his eyes as water droplets ran down the glass. He wasn’t sure if they were red from tears or soap-- and he didn’t care. His chest ached either way, and he knew there was nothing he could do about it.

He could hear static come over the reporter’s voice, and he broke his own eye contact to make out her words. “ _Although many are happy that the criminal is off the streets,_ ” Dick growled at this, “ _there seems to be mixed reactions to the latest news that was let out by Nightwing-- Batman’s former protégé. Apparently, this hard-core villain was also Batman’s son, it seems, making Batman the executor-- or dare I say it-- murderer of his own son. Here are some of the reactions of people in the crowed …_ ”

Dick was slightly surprised that the reporter had been allowed to say such cruel things about the Justice League, because if the radio he listened to on the way here through his haze and tears was anything to go by, the League had already gained control of media. Then he heard the crowed, and put the slimmer of hope away.

_“…say it might seem a little heartless, but now we know they won’t let their feelings get in the way of justice and…”_

_“… don’t know about everyone else, but I’m just glad to know my son is safe from that monster…”_

_“…they’re willing to get the job done, that‘s all that really…”_

_“…only got what he deserved? Yeah, I think so…”_

_“…stupid, murderous piece of crap that Batman killed…”_

_“…I can live without fear knowing that he’s gone, I can fulfill my dreams and…”_

Dick’s fist collided with the mirror, shattering the image of his blue irises. Now the image of himself was cut and jagged as he pulled his hand away, and he could see the crease between his brow deepen. He should have known. Bruce always told him, the best way to get rid of an unwanted idea was to introduce it. Then crush it so no one would _want_ to fantasize about it.

Despite the claim that there were “mixed” reactions, all the interviewed people gave the same basic message: “Red Hood is bad“ and “Batman did the right thing”. Dick knew that that wasn’t right. Killing wasn’t the answer. How was Bruce letting them do this?

A voice refocused his thoughts on something else, and his eyes landed on Tim, drying tears of his own and standing straighter. He was trying to re-compose himself, just like Bruce had taught him: Put away your fears and focus on the moment. It’s not about you at the moment. It’s about the target. You have no feeling-- You have one end to reach, and that is your goal. Bruce.

“I’m fine,” Dick answered, waving away the mirror as if it could actually move. “I just-- I’m fine. The shower helped. Can you just… shut the T.V.?” Tim showed no emotion on his face-- oh, he looked so much like Bruce when he did that-- and just nodded, walking slowly to the remote and pushing the button to turn it off. The reporter’s voice faded, her smile doing the same as the black of the screen took over the brightness of the day and the joy of the crowed. He caught a glimpse of the front steps of the Hall behind them, and he could still see a dark spot where Jason’s body had previously been sprawled.

He could feel his chest ache again, knowing that the body was now in front of him, laying on the couch, but he didn’t look down at it. Another felling bubbled in his chest, and he could hear a low growl rising from his lips. Red-hot anger flashed against his vision, and he could see Tim tense behind him.

 _“The Justice League…”_ Dick remembers the last words the reporter said before they were plunged into silence, and he would fight that idea and fight these people until they were no longer left standing, because he knew it wasn’t true. What these people were doing was wrong, and that was something that was drilled in his mind since he was a child. _“…truly are our lords.”_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, I hate how short this is! I'm sorry, I actually want to write this, but the problem is this story doesn't have enough of a plot. Any helpful ideas?

_Run._

The adrenaline was rushing through his veins, the rush starting to make his breath heavier as he held the gun. It wasn’t pleasurable. It was dangerous. Everything in his body told him to drop it. Everything in his body told him he shouldn’t-- couldn’t-- do this. Yet here he was, burring the metal rim in a tangle of strawberry hair.

_Get up._

_Fight._

There was no danger. There was nothing to fight. The man in front of him was untied. Unharmed. Perfectly capable of self-defense. Yet he chose to sit there, kneeling in front of the men and women the people of earth have come to know as gods. He let his body stay relaxed, his eyes closed. The man was ready. He was accepting. Bruce knew all too well: This man was not scared of death, because once death was the only thing he was.

_Leave._

He could hear the sound of Clark’s announcement into the microphone. Bruce knew what that meant. This man had to go. This young, precious, beautiful, rebelling and trouble-making man had to go. Bruce was supposed to pull the trigger, but he could only stare into the blue-green hues in the iris of this man. They held so much anger. Just like him. He could feel Clark hover next to him as he continued to stare. Clark was getting mad. The crowed was watching. There was no backing out. Not now. Despite the distance, Bruce could feel Clark’s breath. He could sense his anger without looking back. Bruce could only whisper to himself, “Remember why you’re doing this.”

_Don’t come back._

He remembers wanting to say one word to him. That same word floated in his head since. There were so many things he wanted to apologize for. So many things he wanted to say. Things they never got to do. He still wish he had the courage to say that one word. He had the courage, once. That was a long time ago.

_Jason._

He woke up before he could pull the trigger.

_Run._


	3. Chapter 3

Damian stared at the cold silence in the cave, only slightly curious as to where all the harsh feelings had come from. He knew that the family didn't fully agree with killing, but could they really feel such remorse for freeing society from such terrible criminals? In Damian's mind, it didn't make sense. But he could only suppose that if one grew up as spoiled and naive as all his brothers and sisters, they would never agree with such terms.

Although Brown and Gordon seemed slightly accepting of the new decisions the Lords have made, and Cassi not directly agreeing, but yet not  _disagreeing_ , the glares that Tim and Dick sent in the way of Batman when he had his back turned made it obvious that they loathed their new dictators. Damian didn't quite understand, because the only real way to lead a nation was with a strong hand. The lack of that in the past was the only reason their "United States of America" had drowned so deep in their own waters in the first place. 

Batman and the League- or _Lords_ as they're calling themselves now, are doing fine work. Damian walked over to his father. Despite all the changes, though, Damian had to admit that his Father still spent a lot of time in front of the batcomputer. Damian's presence alone was enough to call his Father's attention, and Damian could hear the simple grunt to show that the older of the two was listening. Damian stayed silent for a couple of seconds before asking, "What are you doing?"

Bruce's sigh was abnormally loud. "A theory that I've been playing with. Multiverse. It's not anything new."

Damian nodded slowly, looking at the notes his father's been hunched over for hours. Yes, Damian agreed. There was nothing new about this _Multiverse_. The idea had no interest to him. If his father found some use for it, he'll know about it soon enough. At that, he turned around, dangerously eyeing Tim and Dick, and went upstairs to feed his pets. _  
_

* * *

 

"What are you making?"

Stephanie watched as Bruce sighed (He always seemed to be doing that now) and climbed down the ladder, wiping his oily hands on a cloth. There was a vague skeleton of some kind of machine, almost like a round doorway of some sort. She could see loose wires and spare parts scattered over the floor, although she was sure each one had a reason for being where it was. The only kind of answer he gave her was, "Why are you up?"

"Nightmares," was the only thing that Stephanie said. She knew that Bruce wanted her to go to bed, but it seemed like she was getting more and more unpleasant dreams as the days went on. "What are you making?" She walked toward the thin oddity, reaching her hand out. She was surprised when Bruce did nothing to stop her. Often her open and much-too-touchy personality clashed badly with Bruce's everything-belongs-to-me one but she let her fingers slide over the cool metal, enjoying Bruce's silence.

Bruce sighed. "Go to bed," he said. "It's not anything new."

Stephanie froze, turning around. "Okay." That was the best answer she was going to get, and she knew that.

The next day, there was no evidence that Bruce had ever been working on anything. Stephanie wondered if Bruce's hands were stained, because he kept his gloves on the whole day. She didn't ask, nor did she mention it, but she was still curious.

She looked for the odd machine everywhere. It was never found.

* * *

The light from the computer screen was the only thing that lit up Batman's unmasked face in the Bat-cave as the changing images splashed different colors on his skin. The entrance to the cave was locked, a precaution that he had taken on months ago after one incident with Stephanie, and he sat there alone whispering to himself, " _please, please, please, please..."_

Every day he could feel the pressure threatening to crush him. To squeeze him against the ground until he was an unrecognizable splatter of blood and bone on the floor. He couldn't take it anymore. He had to know that somewhere, maybe his Little Bird was alive and happy. It took so long to build this machine- this mirror to show him other worlds, but he had done it. No, he couldn't travel- _not_ _yet -_ but he could see. That was good enough.

His silent plea only reached his ears, and he knew that it would only ever land on his ears, but if he  _had_ believed in God he would have supposed that he might have heard, too. After so many nights of flipping through images and videos of the other world, because there were so many- _too_ many- he saw a flash of red. It was so familiar. Bruce froze, staring at the video, Just watching as Jason ordered his men around for the next shipment of whatever drug was coming in. The helmet had made the Flash, but it was tucked under his arm, just like he always had it in this world. His hair was Black but that didn't fool Bruce. He could see the Strawberry-blond roots near his scalp, and he remembered how his Jason use to do that too.

For the first time in a while, Bruce wanted to cry. And he did. Every night, he watched this new Jason. Months passed, where every night he would go to the cave and Just observe this Jason before it occurred to him that he could look for others. The Flash. His parents. Selena. It took longer to stop watching Jason to actually do just that.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shhh..... i had no idea how to end this...... my hand are kinda clumsy for now, so if there are any mistakes, sorry.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, Please Please if i have any mistakes tell me because I really hate finding the mistakes Months after I post something.
> 
> I really hope you enjoy it Xp

Superman shook his head. It was another failed mission. Another failed mission that had been assigned to the  _Batfamily._ Batman may have nothing to do with his children's rebellious nature, but if he didn't clean up their act, there would have to be a pretty large execution. He walked to Batman's office, watching silently from the doorway. The office had always been plain and simple. It'll probably always be that way. There was a desk, a chair, a computer. All of it was black or gray.

Superman didn't bother making his presence known. He knew Batman knew he was there. Batman always  _knew_. Whether he cared or not had always been a mystery to Superman. Finally, Superman walked in.

"Bruce," Superman started.

"I know." Batman didn't bother turning around. "I know." And of course, he  _knew_. 

"Then why aren't you doing anything?"  Superman said, turning Batman's seat around. He was trying to force Batman to look at him, so Superman could see his expressions. Superman wanted to see if his face was telling the same thing as his heartbeat. He wanted to know if Bruce would lie to him. "We have to have the upper hand, Bruce--" Bruce's Heart skipped a beat.

"Don't call me that," he said.

Superman sighed. "We're friends, Bruce. I think it's about time we started calling each other by our real names." Superman had worked so hard, _too_ hard, to gain the Bat's loyalty and trust. He couldn't lose it now; not now that the world was safe. Not while it was  _under their command._ It was theirs to do with as they please, and with everyone as their puppets they could finally keep them safe.

"That's not your decision to make, Superman." Batman tried to turn the chair back around, but Superman wouldn't let him. Yes, a year ago he would have let Bruce do as he pleased. Once, Superman viewed Bruce, a man playing a god's game, as noble. Honorable. Brave. Now he can see that all Bruce had been doing was hurting himself. He pranced around as Batman, and then at night when he was all alone in his cave, he'd peel off the mask and lick his hidden wounds better. Superman knew, though, that even when they did heal, each one left its own scar. To keep Bruce safe, _Superman_ had to be the one in charge. He had to give him his limits, just like they've done for the rest of the world.

"Clark," Superman said. He took Bruce's chin in his hand, forcing Bruce to look at him. "Call me Clark."

Bruce fought back.  _Of course_ he fought back. Bruce was predictable, but he could hardly move with the iron grip Superman had on him. Superman could feel him shaking. He could hear Bruce's heartbeat quicken. He knew Bruce was scared. Superman pressed his thumb further into Bruce's jaw, and could feel Bruce's struggle stop.  His heart was still beating, but Bruce showed no external sign of discomfort or fear.

"Do it," Superman said. "It's not that hard. Do I have to spell it out for you, Bruce?"

Bruce grunted in disagreement, and Superman could feel a flash of anger pass through his body at Bruce's reaction. Superman tightened his grip, listening as Bruce took a quick intake of breath through his teeth. Superman blinked. He hadn't been expecting _that_. Bruce didn't showed pain. Ever. Why'd he show him? Superman could only suppose that it makes sense. Why hide something from a being that'll see it anyway? He could hear Bruce's Jawbone start to crack under the small amount of pressure that Superman had put on it. Superman almost smiled. Humans. So Fragile. So soft and so breakable that they had to be saved from themselves.

"Say it," Superman hissed. He felt Bruce flinch; watched as he tried to even his breathing. Superman smiled. Bruce was trying so hard to be Batman in front of him. It would have been cute if it hadn't been so damn annoying. Bruce didn't realize just how much he was giving in, though. If Bruce wanted to be Batman in front of him, he would have pulled out his weapons by now. Superman hasn't restrained Bruce's hand at all, and yet they stayed on the arms of the chair, clutched shut as he tried to look anywhere but Superman.

_"Say it."_

He could feel Bruce's jaw try to move, and Superman loosened his grip just enough to let Bruce speak. Bruce licked his lips first, almost as if trying to delay, and then slowly stuttered out, "C-Clark." His heart skipped a beat.

"There we go," Superman said. And then slowly, he let go of Bruce and took a step back. His smile broadened, and he took a deep breath, tilting his head back and closing his eyes. He was enjoying the moment. "See? It's all about the  _upper hand_. Now, I expect better results from your clan by the end of the month, Bruce. Otherwise they won't die very noble deaths. I highly doubt you want that." _  
_

When Superman looked back at Bruce, his chair was turned back around, fingers on the keyboard and eyes locked on the screen. The only acknowledgment Superman got was a grunt. Of course that was what he got. There was only so much that Bruce could do without Batman.

Superman walked to the door. "I'll see you later."


	5. Chapter 5

The whole country was spit into four parts. There were two East Quarters, and two West. Each Quarter was divided into approximately thirty Sectors. Generally one Sector was assigned to one member or honorary member of the JLA, and Proteges or Sidekicks got less populated areas, and were raised and taught under Superman's watchful eye rather than their mentors.

Superman's finished with the Bat Clan, He's had enough. But he couldn't kill them, not yet. So, begrudgingly, Superman finally agreed to let Batman work together with his Family after threats of quitting, rebelling and who knows what else. Batman didn't usually fight him like this-- not anymore, at least. Yes, he'd do childish things like refusing to talk to him, or glare unnervingly at him, but an argument with proofs and threats never happened anymore. Superman _knew_  it was because of that damned Clan of his. They gave him a fire that Batman shouldn't--  _couldn't_ \-- have. It would make him do unnecessary, stupid and dangerous things.

Killing  _them_ wouldn't help, either. That would break the Bat much to fast. Instead of pulling him closer, it would only push him farther. Although Superman did admit that at times it seemed logical to just kill the Bat himself, Superman couldn't help but argue that keeping him alive is so much more valuable. often he found himself using the rest of the JLA as an excuse-- that this would only make them even more uncomfortable. But he knew that was a lie. He would have killed any of the other members in a heartbeat. But there was something about Bruce...

He had assigned the Batclan two sectors. With the large amount of people in his group, it should have been easy enough. The only reason Superman hadn't assigned them more sectors was because they had gotten their two former cities, Bludhaven and Gotham. Even now, with the new dictatorship, they were the worst cities around. Because their population was dropping like flies from the amount of executions that had to happen, Superman had actually once considered just putting those criminals in jail. He was glad he thought the idea was ridiculous.

Eventually, Superman knew that there had to be no more Bat Clan. Batman has to feel alone. He has to lean on Superman for support. He has to do everything that Superman says. Eventually, he has to do this.

Superman could only think of one way to do this. If somehow he could manage to turn the Batman against his own kin...

* * *

Tim sat outside Dick’s room, pretending to do work. He continuously had to check up and down the halls to make sure no one was coming. Dick spoke loudly, and this as a precaution they have to take so no one walks in on them making any plans.

Dick’s voice was clear through the door. “Yeah, Roy. The group down by the East Quarter is slowly getting bigger.” He sighed. “Yeah-- I know it’s small, but KF’s working as hard and fast as he can. It’s not so easy to find people in the Lower East Quarter. Not so many of them are willing to fight against the Lords-- and especially because he’s the only one there--” he paused. “Yeah, the Upper Quarter is doing pretty well. And the West Quarters are faring better than the Lower East.”

Tim sighed. This was harder than it looked. Finding and choosing people was hard, because whoever hated the Lords didn’t talk. Who would want to risk that? And whoever did was too scared. So far, they had Sidekicks, a couple of honorary Justice Lords (surprisingly) and a couple hundred civilians scattered throughout the whole United States. That was hardly enough to start a rebellion as it was, the Lords would kill all the members within a second, let alone able to start a rebellion now with the expansion of land that the Lords were planning to do into Mexico and Canada.

Tim hid his head in his hand out of frustration. This-- whatever _this_ was-- was really happening. Whatever battle Nightwing and Red Robin were fighting (and at this point Tim wasn’t even sure he was on the right side-- but then he’s seeing Jason’s dead body in his head and decide that he _was_ ) they were fighting it and they were _loosing_.

Taking in a shaky breath, Tim looked up at the sound of footsteps. After seeing who it was, he quietly knocked on Dick’s door twice, knowing that he would get the message. He could hear Dick finish up the conversation with a, “Hey, I got to go. Yeah, Yeah, so we’ll meet up. What time? Alright, I can do that.”

Steph came and sat down beside Tim, looking at the jumble of equations in his lap. They didn’t actually make sense, being that they were all half-finished ideas that have come to him within the past half hour, but he knew Steph wouldn’t be paying attention.

“Hey,” she said. She still had some weapons on her; a knife strapped to her thigh, and something slightly bulky under her pink leather jacket; and Tim winced, because while he would have no problem with her handling weapons it was only because once upon a time they were only used to stun people. They were never used for that anymore.

He didn’t answer. Dick had warned him to act normal, but Tim couldn’t help but close himself off from everyone else. It was so natural to ignore everything that bothered him, just like Bruce. Tim had loved Steph, and if he were truthful with himself he’d say that he still did, but he couldn’t accept what she was doing.

Steph gave out a small chuckle. “Yeah, I haven’t had such a good day either.”

Tim glared at her. “I don’t want to talk right now.” He almost wanted to add, _At least not to you,_ at the end, but he knew that wasn’t true. He just didn’t want to talk. He never really did anymore. She frowned-- and he knew that she only did that with him now-- before getting up and leaving.

Dick chose that moment to open the door, and watched Steph leave with a questioning look, even though Tim knew that he had heard everything. Steph seemed to remember something, and turned to face them before going down the stairs.

“There’s a meeting in ten minutes.” She turned back around and slowly started to go down the stairs. “Bruce says costumes on. Don’t be late.”

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know. It's been a while. Thank you, if you've kept up with me for this long. I just-- this chapter. THIS chapter. 
> 
> I knew EXACTLY what was going to be in it, but then for some odd reason i couldn't put it down on paper. Or my computer, but you guys get the point none the less.
> 
> I know it's short, it was going to be longer. I just decided that I should split the chapter in two, so... You guys'll have to wait until I finish writing the second part...

The R.I.O.T's been growing day after day right under their noses, and they had no idea. An ally, a friend, and they had  _no freaking idea_. Now, it was too late. Orders were to take out the Gotham branch of the R.I.O.T., take their head and torture information out of him, to see where the main operation of this rebellion group was. There was no way that Nightwing could resist without loosing his own authority within the Justice Lord's headquarters and giving himself away.

Plus, Nightwing viewed this as a great opportunity to do some... research and expanding. This rebellion group has been way more successful than his and Red Robin's own Resistance. This R.I.O.T. branch alone had about as many members as the Resistance's entire operation, and the R.I.O.T was rumored to have at least another hundred similar branches across the Quarters. Gotham was the only branch that was known to the Lords, and it was only discovered recently. If Nightwing somehow managed to communicate to them, to talk to this leader and show them that he was on their side and against the Lords, he and the Resistance could suddenly be part of a much larger rebellion group. They might actually have a chance.

Currently, they had already executed a majority of their plan, and now all that was left was actually capturing the head of the Gotham operations. Half of the group, Nightwing included, were chasing said head through the muddy, dark, and in Nightwing's opinion, overused sewers of Gotham's underground. Seriously, why couldn't they chase the 'bad' guy through the flowery field of Arendell or something?

Said leader's identity was unknown. He was suspected to be this guy named "Randal Cornwall", and Nightwing did a  _lot_ of research on the guy, but there seemed to be no reason that this "Randal" would start a rebellion group. He was a regular middle-aged man who lived in the outer farming land of Bludhaven, meaning that his life had little to no change when the Lords took over. Even if he did have reason, there was no way that he had the same amount of training and physical ability that the man they were currently chasing now had, so Nightwing suspected that that theory was wrong. He wasn't sure what led Superman to have him as a suspect in the first place.

The other half of the group were stationed at the only exits this sewer system had. The man ran right for one of the exits, like suspected, and Damian easily swung down from his hidden perch and wrestled the man to the ground. It took a while, but after a couple of shots fired from Stephanie, the man was too injured to continue fighting.

Damian made an odd sound from the back of his throat, like a dissatisfied whine, and said, " _You._ I was not expecting that."

At first Nightwing had the silly thought that it was Tim, like he might have started his own rebellion group, but found that idea ridiculous because Red Robin was stationed at one of the many exits, and this man was much too big for Tim's build.

Nightwing walked up behind Damian and looked down at the man who was sagging against the wall, holding one of the various bullet wound shots that had hit his side. Nightwing tensed as the one single eye narrowed in a glare. Nightwing could practically  _feel_ the smirk under the black and orange mask.

Deathstroke gave a breathy chuckle and said, "Would you expect anything less?"

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

Batman walked into that room, and even if Batman hadn't been sagging his shoulders and pouting like there was no tomorrow, Superman would have been able to tell that Batman wasn't pleased. He stopped right behind Superman and growled, "What the hell were you thinking?"

Superman didn't answer. He didn't have to. Batman waited patiently like he was supposed to, and Superman got the time to finish up his report and tidy up before moving. Even then, it wasn't to address Batman. It was to walk to his private office where he and Bruce could talk, masks off. Or, masks off for Bruce, anyway. Batman followed him, silent as always, and no matter how many years pass, Superman still had to look behind him to make sure Batman was really there. He knew Batman enjoyed that, and Superman let him have that little pleasure. After all, Batman did need  _some_ positive reinforcement.

He walked into the office, the biggest one in the Watchtower, of course, and closed the door after Bruce entered. It was all mahogany wood and knickknacks, but it had the best view of earth. Bruce immediately shoved off his mask, something Superman was glad Batman did as an automatic response now, and snarled. "What were you  _thinking_ _?"_

Superman raised an eyebrow. "That isn't a very polite way to talk, Bruce."

"Does it matter?" Bruce lashed. "You put my  _son_ and that son of a bitch in the same room together! You know Nightwing! You know  _Deathstroke!_ Are you trying to get him killed? Are you trying to get him to kill himself?!"

"I'm going to wait for you to calm down, Bruce," Superman crossed his arms across his chest and relaxed his own muscles. He'd have to be patient. He knew this.

"Don't talk to me like a child,  _Superman,_ " Bruce hissed. Clark could see the glisten of a Batarang in Bruce's hand, but he let it be for now. Worse comes to worse, it would join the others in the wall on the opposite side of the room. It was an improvement. Batman use to throw them at  _him_. Sooner or later Superman would have to make sure that Batman didn't trow them at all, but that wasn't the important part right now.

Superman sighed. "I told you not to call me that," He said. "Not while it's just the two of us. And from what I heard, Nightwing is fairly familiar with Deathstroke. I found him the most suitable choice. Deathstroke is more likely to spill to Nightwing if he were to spill at all, and Nightwing might be able to catch things that we would miss. It is logical, is it not?"

Batman didn't answer. Not that Superman was expecting one. Superman just walked up to him and laughed, saying, "Unless that  _wasn't_ your concern?" Clark gave him a cheeky smile and patted Bruce's cheek twice. Bruce growled, but stayed silent. "Your sons are loyal to me, Bruce. Deathstroke shouldn't be a problem."

Batman huffed, but he knew better than to say something like,  _He might convince Nightwing,_ or, _I'm not so sure about that_ , Because that would be like openly admitting Nightwing as a rebel. Superman was surprised that Batman had come up to him in the first place.

He passed Batman and sat down at his desk, pulling up the previous paperwork. "Is there anything else you need?"

Again, no answer, but Superman could hear a swish of his cape and the sound of the Batarang flinging through the air. And... That Batarang came too close to Superman's head for his liking. It passed him and joined the others on the wall. Superman acted quickly and within seconds he had Bruce pinned up against the wall, holding him by his neck. Batman's feet weren't touching the ground, but his hands grabbed at Superman's wrists and held himself up, holding his breath so he wouldn't gasp for air in Superman's tight grip. If Batman had just thrown it, Superman might have let it go. But that was too close to have just been a way to let out his anger. It was a sign of defiance, a way to say he didn't agree. Bruce's frown didn't come off.

"I told you to behave," Superman whispered, his voice low in a warning. "You'll get rid of that nasty throwing habit of yours by the end of the week. And I want an apology by the end of the day. Unless you're hiding something, there's no reason you should be so mad. Is that understood?"

Batman couldn't answer this time. Superman's fingers were pressing too hard to let him talk. But that didn't matter, Superman didn't need words to see Batman's subtle submission. The slight relaxation of his shoulders, the way his eyes barely flickered to the floor. Superman found it odd, how easily he could read Batman now, and yet sometimes not know what he was thinking at all.

"That's my boy," superman murmured, and slowly let Batman go. Batman growled. "Go along. You have paper work to finish."

Batman turned and left, an air of absolute haughtiness following him. Superman could only roll his eyes. He knew Batman would act like this the whole day. Act like he was... well, Batman. He also knew, sooner or later, more than likely at night, he would hear a soft voice from cities away. A soft voice that'd say,  _"I'm sorry,"_ or something similar to that. Superman knew there was a sense of security, for Batman to say it when he couldn't see Superman, and Superman only found it amusing. 

He continued his paper work. Despite the irony, one day Superman will be the only security that Batman will have.

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geez, sorry about that. Long wait. Just-- serious writers block. Took a break for a while. I haven't gotten all of my charisma back, but I'm getting there. Sorry it's short, too. But It was what I could offer. Sorry?

Nightwing walked into the room, looked around at the gray walls, the metal table and chair, and sat down, throwing the open file in front of Deathstroke with a _thunk_. Deathstroke was bound to the chair by his ankles, and Nightwing knew that his arms were supposed to be cuffed together, wasn’t so surprised that they weren’t.

“We managed to find one branch,” Nightwing said. He didn’t say hello. Didn’t indicate anything to Deathstroke because he was aware of the camera in the corner of the room, “Yours.”

Deathstroke hummed but didn’t say anything, had his head turned sideways and stared at the one-way glass. He didn’t even glance at the pictures scattered on the table. Nightwing mentally sighed, didn’t want to be the one to interview him. He walked around the table, crouched over until he was level with Deathstroke’s eyes.

“Deathstroke,” Nightwing said. “We have a couple hundred followers— _your_ followers—and none of them will talk. You know what’s going to happen to them?”

Deathstroke didn’t say anything.

Nightwing sighed. “They’re going to die.” He straightened his back and felt Deathstroke’s eyes follow him as he walked back to the other side of the table, sat down in the empty seat. “ _You_ don’t have to. Just tell me where they are. Where are your other branches?”

He glanced at the camera, knew that he couldn’t hint that he wants to know R.I.O.T for reasons that weren’t for the Lords, wished for the first time that Deathstroke could read him like an open book. He could still hear Tim’s frantic, _“Just act like the bad cop. We’ll figure something out,_ ” in his head.

Deathstroke raised an eyebrow and chuckled. He said, “How does it feel, kid?”

Nightwing didn’t let the confusion show on his face and pushed the file closer to Deathstroke. “Where. Are. They.”

“Does the power over someone’s life give you a thrill?” Deathstroke continued, shifted slightly to straighten his back more. “Do you like to pull the trigger, or would you rather beat them with those Eskrimas of yours?”

Nightwing growled and muttered, “Shut up.” He knew that wasn’t a good idea to let Slade know he was bothered, but he couldn’t stop the glare.

Deathstroke laughed. “Have you even killed anyone yet?”

Nightwing didn’t answer, just glared at the open folder. They were pictures of the members, people Nightwing would consider allies. It was them going about their daily business, not even aware of the person around the corner snapping pictures of their life. He tightened his hand into a fist, tried to hide the anger, managed to hiss, “What are you even doing, Slade?”

Slade slowly raised his hands to the file, shifted through the pictures and stopped at some, stared at them with a bitter sweet smile, like he really cared about them. Like he didn’t want them to die.

“Being everything you ever wanted me to be,” Deathstroke said, tossed a picture at Nightwing. Nightwing picked it up, stared at the image of a daughter hugging her father, saw the smiling mother behind them with the lights from inside streaming into the darkness of the night. “A hero.”

Nightwing wondered why they had pictures like that in the folder.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah.... its been a while. It feels so nice to be able to sit down and write again XD I feel like I never have the time XD

_Click._

Tim watched her from the shadows, and couldn't help the bitter sweet smile that pulled at his lips as he thought the word, " _creep._ " That was exactly what Jason used to call him when he did this to his friends. Stalked them from behind to make sure they were safe. Now that Jay was gone, Tim missed it, because while Jason usually only said that when there was a gun to Tim's head, had some kind of threat over Tim's life, there were the few and far in between when Jason would show up on the manor steps and the nickname would be just that: a nickname. When he did, they would all be shocked and surprised, and then act like they had dinner like that every night: Happy, strong, joking. 

Like a family. A family far from the reality of broken hearts that they knew.

Steph shakes her blond hair out of her ponytail before putting it back up. Tim frowns, raises the camera to his eye and watches her through the lens; happy, strong and joking with Cass over a dead body. He could hear her giggle from where he was perched, saw Cass go through the motions of burning the body, devoid of emotion like the killer she was trained to be. Steph's hair was streaked with red, a spatter of blood on her cheek. He catches the perfect way her wet, blood stained curls bounced, the soft light of the fire against her cheeks, the curve of her back. Tim couldn't help the crinkle of his nose. But... no matter how disgusted Tim was at her, how _angry_ he was at her, he had to admit--

She looked beautiful.

_Click_.

He let his finger hit the button again and again, couldn't really stop the way he did it, just let himself follow her as she drove home with Cass. He took pictures of her pressed up against Cass as she held onto BlackBat while they road her motorcycle, took pictures while she swung her leg over the seat so that she could get off, added more and more pictures as she walked into one of the hidden entrance to the Cave.

He watched, ducked behind a bush in a Tee-shirt and Jeans, as the entrance closed, the grappling hook he had used to follow them carelessly placed next to him. Once he knew she was gone, completely out of sight, the weight of the camera suddenly felt heavy against Tim's palm. Tim felt so wrong doing this-- watching her, everyone, from behind a lens. He gave it up so long ago.

Despite that, he snapped another picture of the blank rock wall, a well hidden motorcycle somewhere behind the vines and trees.

_Stupid_ \-- that's what he was. Stupid for ignoring her, for not telling her what he thought about Bruce, about the Lords, about _everything_. Why does he have to close up, shut down, _stop taking_ when he should be shouting? _Stupid._ What was the last thing he had even said to her, before their relationship had just faded? Before when they passed each other in the halls it became glances with nods? Before it graduated to not acknowledging each other at all?

_"I don't want to talk right now."_

Idiot, Drake. That's what you are, an _idiot_. It's too late now.

He settled on his back, the moist dew on the grass dampening his shirt. He raised the camera above his head, stared at the small screen and thumbed through his pictures, one by one, zoomed into her eyes, her lips, her _everything_. At some point he reached pictures of BlackBat, of Barbara, of Bruce, sitting at the computer or walking somewhere. Every once in a while he had managed to snag a picture of one of them on the job, serious, determined, _exhilarated..._

It always managed to come back to Stephanie.

_Idiot, Drake._

_An idiot for losing her._  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is mainly focusing on tim.... and steph. on tim focusing on steph. Yep. This is his character development, people. get used to it XD


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow whens the last time i updated this

Dick gripped the garbage can tightly as another wave of nausea hit, heaving nothing but air as his body tried to deal with the disgust that ran through his system. He’d been stuck to his bed all day, unable to get up and walk around without feeling lightheaded and faint. He was sick to the core, and although Alfred claimed that it must be that he’s coming down with something, they all knew that wasn’t quite right. 

Usually everyone left him alone, letting him rest. Tim stayed, lingering on the chair by the desk, doing his work and reading. The only time he left was when Bruce called, and he was always quick to return. 

Tim listened when Dick started shaking from the memories that clouded his mind, and put a comforting hand on his back when the churning feeling in Dick’s gut returned along with the memories of blood and pain.

“Oh, God,” Dick moaned. “I can’t believe I did that.”

“He’s still alive,” Tim tried to comfort. He scooted closer to Dick, holding his brother’s hair out of his face. The tips were already wet with spit and stomach acid. “It’s not like you--” Tim broke off, unable to finish his sentence.

“But what if they had told me to?” Dick looked so unsure of himself. “What would’ve I done then?”

“We would have figured something out,” Tim reassured. “We always do.”

Dick doubted his words, Tim knew, but he didn’t say anything. Neither of them did. They both sat in silence. The fears they shared went unspoken for, but the presence laid heavily on their shoulders. 

The memories that Tim tried to suppress resurfaced as well, but Tim always had been better than Dick at hiding his emotions. He remembered the amount of blood on the floor, knew that Slade was only alive because he was who he was. Slade... He hadn’t made a sound the whole time. Every whip, every stab, every threat-- it was greeted with gritted teeth and determination behind a single silver eye. Right down to the moment the mercenary passed out. Whether the mercenary's body gave in because of blood loss or pain, Tim wasn’t really sure. 

Nightwing had been the only other person in the room besides the mercenary himself. He had been the man holding the weapons meant to inflict pain upon its victim. Dick had struggled so hard to get out of that position, but Superman persisted, claiming that the one who started the interrogation should be the one to finish it.

“Go,” Tim remembers telling Dick. “If you keep on refusing, they’ll get suspicious. As long as he won’t talk, they won’t kill him. They need that Info.”

_ It’s the lesser of two evils _ , Tim remembers telling himself.  _ And there are no other options. _

Jason used to say the same thing, sometimes. 

Tim hadn’t even stopped to consider what would have happened if Slade  _ had _ spilled. What would he have said then?

“They’re already suspicious,” Dick whispered, bringing Tim back to the present. “We’re one of the only members that have a clean record, Tim. Not a single kill. They know something’s up.” His face was blank, staring at the blackness at the bottom of the plastic can in his hands. Tim went to wipe some drool off of Dick’s lip before Dick pulled away to do it himself.

“We just need more time,” Tim faltered.

“We’re running out of time, Tim,” Dick mumbled. “They’re going to force us to prove our loyalty eventually.”

Tim didn't answer at first, but he knew what Dick was getting at. What they had forced dick to do had been bad, but it's only going to get _worse_. “That's loyalty we don’t have,” Tim finally croaked.

Dick laid his head against the bin. He sighed and whispered, “Timmy... they’re going to make us kill someone.”


End file.
